


what have i become (my sweetest friend)

by optimisticlesbian



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lost Love, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-Orange is the New Black Season 07, Regret, Sad, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/optimisticlesbian/pseuds/optimisticlesbian
Summary: A series of moments in the last few years of Dayanara Diaz's life.
Relationships: Dayanara "Daya" Diaz/Dominga "Daddy" Duarte, Dayanara "Daya" Diaz/Tasha "Taystee" Jefferson, John Bennett/Dayanara "Daya" Diaz
Comments: 26
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! 
> 
> I originally wrote this as a one shot, and published it underneath the title 'i focus on the pain (the only thing that's real). i temporarily deleted it in order to make a few edits, and decide what i wanted to do with the story. 
> 
> This is going to be angsty, violent, and incredibly depressing, so please proceed with caution. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

You don't recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. 

You know you're a monster, of course. 

You can't find another explanation for why you do the things you do. 

Using your baby sister as a connect from the outside. 

Threatening that GED teacher. 

Killing your own girlfriend. 

God, how many deaths are you responsible for at this point? 

(You stopped counting long ago.)

×  
×  
×

_This ain't no junkie shit,_ you once said. The lie had rolled off your tongue with surprising ease, ease so surprising that you nearly believed it yourself. _I'm in a lot pain. _

But that was last year. 

And this is now. 

Last year, you had someone.

_Her_.

Someone with a bright smile and big brown eyes and a laugh only you got to hear. Someone who told dirty jokes and taught you Spanish and always had something to make you feel better, to wash away the never-ending agonies of life in prison. 

You try and forget about her now, but her laughter haunts your dreams.

Before her, of course, there was _him_. 

_Him,_ with his big brown eyes (hey, you had a type, sue you) and his seemingly endless supply of gum, and all his little quirks and quips and puns, and awkward mannerisms, and lopsided grins that you hated now. 

He'd left you behind. And that hurt, of course, hurt you so bad that you'd shot that guard in the dick and watched with empty eyes as his blood smeared across the floor. 

But that was nothing compared to him leaving your baby.

_Your baby. _

You're never going to see her again. You know that much. Ms. Powell knows better than to bring Armaria to see you, to subject you both to that kind of torture. 

That doesn't mean you don't think about her, of course. 

You often imagine cradling Armaria in your arms, or lifting her up high into the air as she giggles uncontrollably. You imagine chasing her around your apartment (it's small and messy but it might as well be heaven to you) and you imagine holding her hand as she takes her first steps. 

You think of Armaria following in your footsteps. Becoming an addict, a criminal, a murderer.

That's always when you stop dreaming. 

_"Yo, what's your real name, anyway?" _

_She shifts her weight against the mattress, gaze averted and lower lip drawn between her teeth. You're both drunk off of Adeola's hooch and each other, stars lighting up the darkness in your eyes. _

_"Promise you won't laugh?" she says. _

_You nod. _  
  
_She sighs in response. _

_"Dominga." _

_A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, swollen from her kisses._

_"Yo, I knew it was gonna be somethin' hella girly. Like, Yessica or Angelica or some shit," you say through a laugh you promised wouldn't leave your throat. _

_She rolls her eyes at your hysterics. "Yeah, yeah, real funny," she mumbles, another healthy swallow of hooch passing through her lips. _

Taystee once asked if you feel the same pain she does. If you lie awake at night, staring up at the ceiling as loneliness and darkness consumes every fiber of your being.

You didn't lie to her, technically. 

But the only reason you don't feel shit is because you don't let yourself feel shit. 

You will do anything to feel numb. 

_Your relationship is made out of stolen kisses and stolen glances and wistful smiles and knowing looks. _

_It all starts when he gives you gum. You tease him about it, saying he must like you. The grin he wears is brighter than the fluorescent orange you're still dressed in. _

_You're incredibly lucky to have someone like him. _

_And whether it's stolen glances over a sea of other inmates, or intimate gazes when you're pressed up against each other in the closet, every time you look at him, you think to yourself… _

_This is what love feels like. _

There's nothing to keep you here anymore. 

You think about it often, of course. 

The cool sting of metal pressed against your veins. 

The itch of a rope wrapped around your neck. 

After all, this isn't living.

This is barely surviving. 

Aleida nearly did the favor for you.

As her hands wrapped around your broken neck, and as her hatred filled eyes gazed into your soulless pools of black, the only thing you felt was _relief. _

Those thirty seconds you thought she was going to kill you were the only thirty seconds you ever loved her.

×  
×  
×

You don't recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. 

After all, the monster in your reflection can't _possibly_ be you. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aleida gets back from Ad-Seg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up-- the chapters of this story will be relatively short and will not follow a particular plot line. 
> 
> Happy reading!

"Diaz, let me ask you something," Adeola says, brow furrowed and lips pursed in a thin, straight line. 

You look up from searching through garbage bags in hopes of finding those drugs you so desperately need, your own brow furrowing with intrigue. 

"What?" you say impatiently, the ache of withdrawal just beginning to settle underneath your skin. 

Adeola kisses her teeth and tilts her head to the side, clearly unsure of asking you the next question. 

Before you can spit out a new string of venom, Adeola opens her mouth to speak. 

"You ever miss her?" 

It's not lost on you who the Nigerian is referring to. 

_ Her.  _

You can't say her name without it burning your lungs and the walls of your throat, pooling thick and heavy and sour on your tongue. 

You shrug, feigning indifference at Adeola's question. 

"Sometimes, I guess. You?" 

Adeola kisses her teeth again, her upper lip curling into a grimace. 

"Well, when you disregard her God complex, and unquenchable thirst for validation, and how she made half of D-Block an addict…. she was one bad bitch." 

You let out something between a scoff and a laugh, your insides tight with nausea. Shit, you need a fix, you need it bad, that stupid little  _ puta  _ better have delivered this time-- 

"Ah-ha. Guess having your own little sister as a connect isn't that bad of an idea, Diaz," Adeola says, holding up a tiny bag filled with that white powder you love so dearly. 

The sullen grimace plastered on your face turns into a full-on, mega watt grin as you snatch the bag out of Adeola's grip. 

You unclip your ID badge (fuck, you look  _ so  _ bad in that photo) off of the khaki shirt of your uniform, pouring a tiny amount of the heroin on the thin plastic before bringing it up to your nose. 

_ "Yo, what's the first thing you're gonna do when you get outta this shithole?"  _

_ She ruminates over your question for a moment, lower lip drawn between her teeth.  _

_ "Shit, girl, I don't even know," she answers with a shrug of her shoulders and a small scoff.  _

_ "Whatchu mean, you don't know? Don't you think about it all the fuckin' time?"  _

_ She scoffs again.  _

_ "No, not really. There might be a lot of time to think in here, but that doesn't mean I like doing it."  _

_ You arch an eyebrow.  _

_ She rolls those deep brown eyes of hers, throwing her hands up in defeat.  _

_ "Alright, you really wanna know? Get coffee."  _

_ Now it's your turn to scoff. "Coffee? Really, bitch, coffee?"  _

_ "Yes, stupid. Coffee. Daddy needs his Starbucks."  _

_ You throw a pillow at her. "Yo, shut the fuck up!"  _

What you see when you enter the common room makes you choke on your spit. 

Aleida is sitting at a table, surrounded by girls with greasy blonde hair and sunken eyes just like yours. 

"Shit. She's finally out of Ad-Seg?" Adeola says, sucking her teeth as she grabs you by the arm. 

You wrench out of her grip. "Yeah, but that don't mean I gotta talk to that bitch. Don't acknowledge her," you murmur, jabbing a finger against Adeola's chest between every word. 

"Alright, Diaz, I won't even look at her. Can't say the same for Annalisa, and the others, though," Adeola says, jutting her chin outwards in your mother's-- Aleida's direction. 

There it is, the sickening burn of fury within your chest, coursing through your veins. 

One day back from Ad-Seg and she's already jackin' all your bitches?

Oh, this is some  _ bulllll _ shit. This is worse than that time she gave you the boy advice that made you lose both Paolo and Claire in one night, or that time she convinced you into selling your baby. 

"Stay here," you murmur, shoving Adeola to the side before stalking over to the long metal table where your mother--  _ Aleida  _ sits. 

You slam your hands down on the table with so much effort you swear you hear (and feel) a bone crack. 

"What the fuck you think you doin'?" you say, your face so close to Aleida's that you can see every wrinkle, every mole, every drop of burning hatred simmering beneath her gaze. 

"Just catchin' up with the girls here. What, I can't talk to my friends without you up my ass crack?"

Your own eyes narrow, your mouth twisting with anger. 

Aleida smirks. "Remember what happened the last time you fucked with me, little girl? Or do I gotta remind you again?" she questions, gesturing at the ring of faded green and mauve around your neck. 

You grit your teeth, nails scraping against the metal table. You want to take a swing at her  _ so fucking bad,  _ smack the bitch upside the head---

You feel a warm, comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Diaz," Adeola says quietly. "Another time." 

You shrug off Adeola's grip and walk, your eyes never leaving Aleida's the entire way back to your cell. 

Fury whooshes through your veins as the memory of Aleida's hands around your neck flashes through your mind. You don't know who you're angrier at, her, for not killing you, or yourself, for not even  _ fucking  _ dying. 

Oh, well. There's plenty of time to kill yourself. And plenty of motive, too. 

Before those hot tears that you've been fighting back all this time can roll down your cheeks, the heroin kicks in, and your head collapses against the pillow as ecstasy washes over you. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly dubious consent. Proceed with caution.

She's real pretty, you think. 

Taystee, that is. 

You can't take your eyes off her sometimes. She's graceful and kind and funny and everything you used to be, everything you want to be instead of some useless junkie. 

You didn't think of her like this at camp, of course. You weren't no dyke at camp, what, with  _ him  _ and all. You were the most heterosexual bitch up in there. 

But being a D-Block boss at all, you have a lot of opportunities, so to speak. You don't really pay attention to those other bitches, knowing they must be using you for their daily fix. 

And you can't help but wonder-- is this how Da-- how  _ she  _ felt all the time? Paranoid, restless, her fingernails bit to the very flesh? 

You and Taystee are so different, really. Similar circumstances, sure, but she's chosen to make something of herself. She's always been better than you, and spending the rest of her life in this shithole doesn't change that. 

She's running the education program now, and she's got herself this fund named after that dead bitch-- that dead girl from camp. The one named after female genitalia. 

And you? You're gonna die a junkie and a monster and the piece of shit you always knew you'd be. 

The piece of shit you hope Armaria won't be. 

_ Oh, fuck it,  _ you think. You gon' get you some tonight, and you ain't lettin' no existential crisis stop you. 

"Yo, Taste," you say, coming up behind the inmate and placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinches at your touch for the briefest of moments before realizing it's you, and her whole frame instantly relaxes. 

Taystee quirks an eyebrow. "Yeah, D? Wassup?" 

You swallow the bile accumulating in the dryness of your mouth. 

"I need to talk to you, man. Like, now," you say, already grabbing her by the arm and leading her off to your cell. 

"Is everythin' alright? Somethin' happen, or--" 

You cut her off by grabbing her face and planting a kiss square on her mouth. 

"Yo, what the  _ fuck _ !" Taystee shouts in protest, pushing you away from her and onto your bed.

You can't say you're surprised, but you can't say you're not disappointed either. She was your lifer-sister, after all, and don't lifer-sisters do shit for each other? 

You say this to her just moments later with arched eyebrows and spread thighs. 

Taystee sucks her teeth. "That's some sweet home Alabama type shit, yo," she says, but she still gets down to her knees anyway and tugs at your pants. 

"You sure you wanna do this?" you ask, but your hand has already found its way to the back of her head. 

She pauses for a moment, lower lip tucked between her teeth. 

"Yeah, yeah, I do," Taystee says, and her hands and her voice both shake as she hooks her fingers underneath the white cotton of your underwear. 

"That's it," you murmur. "Give mama what she needs." 

Taystee scoffs and looks up at you with incredulous eyes. "Yo, can you cut that shit out with all the dirty talk? It's creepin' me out, man." 

You roll your eyes, palms laying flat against the mattress. 

"Okay, fine, whatever you want." 

Taystee pauses again for a moment, staring at the space between your thighs. 

"You don't know what to do?" you say, brow furrowed and head tilted to the side. It's a question you already know the answer to. 

Taystee sighs. "Is it that obvious?" 

"So….you mean you never did this shit with any of your girls from camp? Or Vee, or whatever her name was?" 

She shakes her head, her grip tightening on your thighs at the mention of her big haired mammy, as Doggett once put it. 

_ Doggett.  _

"I'll help you through it, man, don't worry 'bout it," you deadpan, pushing her a little closer by the back of her head. 

Taystee shrugs. "Aight. I mean, what do I gotta lose anyway, right?" A humorless chuckle leaves her mouth right before a moan leaves yours. 

× 

× 

×

"That wasn't so bad, right?" you say, chest heaving up and down with heavy breaths. Taystee wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her brow still furrowed. 

"No complaints," the woman says, clasping her hands in her lap. She turns to you for a second, a sort of sad, wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

"Yeah, me neither," is your reply. 

"Yo, can I ask you somethin'?" Taystee says after a few moments of painfully awkward silence. 

"If it's about Aleida, nuh-uh." 

Taystee scoffs. "Like I give a fuck about her old ass. No, it's about Daddy." 

Your heart drops down to your stomach and your blood turns to ice within your veins at the mere mention of  _ her _ . 

That ice is quickly replaced by fire as you grab Taystee by the front of her shirt. 

"Don't be fuckin' talkin' about her, T," you snarl, jabbing your finger into her face. 

"Yo, D, chill, chill. I ain't gonna ask why you did it, or whatever. You told that bitch what's what, and that's a lot more than I'd ever do," Taystee hurriedly says, her words too quick and brown eyes too wide to be calm. 

Slowly but surely, you relax, letting go of Taystee's shirt and leaning back against the thin pad that the guards dare to call a bed. 

"Alright. What you wanna ask me?" you say, arching an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Did you ever...do this with her?" Taystee replies after a moment, deep brown eyes averted from your own like she's ashamed to even ask such a question. 

"Bitch, you gotta be kidding me, all the fuckin' time. We hit it in the showers, in the library, in the laundry room, in the closets, in the yard, hey, you figure that one out, yo," you say when a look of confusion crosses Taystee's face. 

"Well, I  _ know  _ that, but did you ever, like, top her? Or was you just a pillow princess?"

Your brow furrows again. "What that mean?" 

Taystee gives you another disappointed scoff. "Shit, bitch, you the gay one, and  _ I  _ gotta teach you all the slang?"

"Well, as of five minutes ago, you the gay one, too. Now tell me what the fuck that mean. Ain't like I got a dyke dictionary." 

Huh. A  _ dyke _ tionary. 

Taystee pinches the bridge of her nose. "Like, did you do nothin' but let her fuck you? Or did you fuck her sometimes too?" 

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I definitely fucked her too, Taste." 

Taystee scrunches up her nose, covering her ears with calloused hands. "Don't be gettin' all nasty, D." 

You let out a cackle at how uncomfortable you've made her, giving her shoulder a playful punch. 

Taystee lets out a laugh of her own after a few moments of catatonic silence, but her face slowly becomes stoic again. 

"So...was you any good at it?" 

"I'd say ask her, but…" you shrug, gesturing upwards. Your stomach burns with guilt before you can change the subject. 

Taystee's eyes are the size of plates, and her mouth is wide open too. Your little joke clearly struck a nerve with her, and  _ dammit, Diaz, don't be jokin' around like that no more--  _

"I mean, like, for serious though," Taystee says, head tilted to the side. Her hand comes to rest on your knee, and in that moment, all the puzzle pieces fit together with a  _ click  _ that you swear you can hear. 

"Oh. So, you want me to eat you out?" 

Taystee flinches at your brusqueness before slowly nodding, getting on the bed and slowly tugging her pants off. She stares at you the entire time with watchful eyes and barely parted lips. 

You shrug, climbing on top of her and shoving your hand down her underwear. 

"Now let me see if you live up to your nickname," you murmur, and you relish the way her breath hitches. 


	4. Chapter 4

"Come on, Diaz, you're late for visitation," Hellman says, the contempt in his voice almost enough to send chills up your spine. 

You kiss your rotting teeth, not bothering to look up from your book. "Wrong Diaz. I don't get visitors," you deadpan, leafing through the pages that smell faintly of mildew. 

"Get up, bitch," Hellman snarls, kicking the side of your bunk so hard that it rattles underneath you.

You kiss your teeth once again, tossing the book to the side as Hellman grabs you by the arm. Shit was boring anyway. Not enough character development.

Your eyes scan the visitation room, looking for a familiar face behind the panels of glass you've pressed a hand against too many times. 

The same panels you'll be touching for the rest of your life. 

Hellman points a thick, meaty finger at a familiar-looking woman with dark brown eyes and a short, choppy bob marred with gray streaks. There's a splotch of lipstick coating her mouth, and there are a few wrinkles edged around her features. 

You guess she'd have a friendly face if it wasn't so full of hatred. 

Shit. How do you know this bitch, anyhow? Middle school teacher? Pal of Aleida? She looks  _ Boricua _ , too, maybe she's from the old neighborhood. 

You know her from somewhere, you just can't put your fuckin' finger on it--

Against your better judgment, you sit down in the chair and bring the phone to your ear. 

"Yo," you say, running a hand over your face before looking her in the eye. "I know you or somethin'?" 

"Nah," she whispers, and the venom in her voice makes your blood curdle within your veins. 

"But I know you,  _ pendeja.  _ Oh, I know everything about you. I know what you are," the woman says, dark brown eyes tortured with grief. She jabs a finger against the glass pane with enough force you swear you hear something crack. Her hand is white-knuckled around the phone, blue veins straining against her flesh. 

"I know what you did to my baby girl," the woman snarls, nails raking against the glass that seems all too thin now.

And with that, you realize who she is. 

_ Her _ mother. 

"You so damn lucky there's glass between us, otherwise, I'd strangle you, bitch, I'd strangle you until the light fades from your eyes. And I'd, I'd fuckin' love it too."

You don't doubt a word she's saying. You've committed a horrible, unforgivable sin, of course.  _ Her _ blood is on your hands,  _ her _ responsibility on your shoulders,  _ her  _ voice echoing in your head. 

_ Her  _ mother slams a hand against the glass pane.  _ Fresh manicure _ , you think. Clearly, her grief can't be too bad, she's dragging her ass all the way to the nail salon. 

"Say somethin'! Fuckin' say somethin'!" she screams, kicking her chair to the side. She towers over your still-sitting form, and there is not a doubt in your mind that she'd kill you if there wasn't a pane of glass and an entire universe between you. 

"Hey, hey, that's enough, ma'am," McCullough shouts, pulling  _ her  _ mother away from the pane of glass, away from you, out of the visitation room and out of the prison. 

You place the phone back in the holder with shaking hands, and you haul ass out of the visitation room as fast as you can. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, motherfucker, shit, bitch, ass, dick, fuck, cock, titties, fuck." 

Those are the only words you can think to use as you pace around your cell. 

What else are you supposed to do after all, when you've just been eye to eye with the mother of the person you killed? (Well, one of them anyway.) You didn't read no WikiHow article about this shit.

Fuck, you hate  _ her  _ so much. Hate her, hate her, hate her for making you a junkie, making you a soulless monster who's dependent on powder and pills then leaving you like this without so much as a goodbye. Hate  _ her  _ almost as much as you hate  _ him  _ for leaving you and Armaria, and that's saying something. 

_ His  _ name burns the tip of your tongue and leaves you shaking and breathless, and the mere thought of  _ him  _ alone is enough to make your heart plummet and sing all at the same time. 

God, you need a fix. Need it, need it, need it so bad, because you can't stand to feel another second of this shit, can't bear to face the truth, can't bear to face the monster you have become at your own hand---

You lean over the toilet bowl and promptly puke your guts out.


	5. Chapter 5

"Taysteeeeeeee." 

Nothing. 

"Tayyyyyyyyyysteeeeeeeeeeee Jeh-fur-sonnnnnn." 

Nothing. 

"Taaaaaaaaaashaaaaaaaaa." 

Now that elicits a reaction. 

Taystee slams down the book she's reading, jumping up from her bunk. "Whatchu want, D?" 

You shrug, pursing your lips together and swinging your legs so they dangle over the bunk. 

"I just wanna talk to you, man. I'm bored as shit, ain't you?" 

Taystee had been reassigned to your cell a few weeks ago, and you certainly didn't have an issue with that. Usually, she rejected your advances, a wave of the hand, a strange look, a kiss of her teeth. She rarely ever said yes to you, but when she did…

Ooh, shit. You could say plenty about her, but you couldn't deny that she lived up to her nickname. 

"Well, no, I ain't bored, 'cause I'm keeping myself busy, and you should do the same. Snort some heroin or some shit, you stupid-ass junkie, I don't care." 

Your heart seizes up in anger at the  _ J-word,  _ and before you can stop yourself, you hop off your bunk and slap the bitch in the face, you slap her  _ good.  _

"Fuck you, you fucking bitch," you snarl, ignoring the string of curses that leaves Taystee's mouth.

You walk out of the cell, fire singing your insides with every step you take. 

Fuck. Where are you gonna go? 

But the thing about prison is, there is fucking  _ nowhere  _ to go. 

Part of the punishment, you think. Get into a fight with your cellie, you can't do jack shit about it but hope that she won't shiv yo' ass. 

You could talk to Adeola. Rant about Taystee, that stupid bitch, get drunk on the best damn hooch in the world. Not heroin, but damn good all the same. 

For only a moment, you think about going to Aleida. You think about curling up in her lap and her stroking your hair, kissing your forehead and telling you how much she loves you. 

But that's never going to happen again. 

Not that it happened much in the first place. 

Maybe that's why you are the way you are. 

"Yo, Daya!" 

You spin around on your heel, brow furrowed and eyes wide. 

It's Flaca, purple lipstick smeared around the corners of her mouth. She looks cute, on the low, you ain't gonna lie. 

"Gloria's comin' to visit me later, you want me to say hey for you?" she asks. 

You nod your head and purse your lips, eyes scanning over Flaca's figure. 

You wonder what she must think of you now. Back at camp, she used to call you a coconut and tease you about your weight. 

And now, she's become some sort of stupid fuckin' martyr for immigrants, convinced that she'll save the entire world one day. 

"And, Daya?" 

"What?" 

A sad sort of smile tugs at the corners of Flaca's mouth. 

"I'm glad you're okay." 

You turn away before she can see the tears brimming in your eyes. 

And against your better judgment, you walk straight into Aleida's cell. 

"Yo, get the fuck out," you say to her cellie, snapping your fingers and gesturing out the door. 

She must know that you're  _ la jefa,  _ because she runs out of there like someone lit her ass on fire. 

"What the fuck you doin' here, stupid? Whatchu want?" Aleida snarls, reaching into her waistband and pulling out a shiv. 

You ignore the way your heart flinches as you raise your hands in an effort to calm her down. 

"Relax, Ma, I just wanna talk," you say. 

_ Ma.  _

"Talk to somebody else. Talk to that black bitch from camp, or one of those bitches in your crew, or one of those guard bitches, or that Flaca bitch, or that Ruiz bitch, or any of those other bitches. The possi-bitch-ities are endless, so don't you fuckin' talk to me, Daya." 

Aleida is still your mother after all. That's an unavoidable fact, an inescapable truth. And she loves to remind you, throwing it back in your face like acid every time you overstep. 

And the fact that she tried to kill you is never going to change that. 

Aleida sits down on the bed, eyes still expectantly wide. She scoffs, a short little sound that makes your lungs sting. 

"Go,  _ mija,  _ talk. I'm waiting." 

"I… I just wanted to see how you was doin'," you stammer out, your voice wavering with the tears you've been holding back ever since you got here. 

"So you ain't tryna shiv me or beat my ass or nothin'? You gotta step up your game, Daya." 

Ah, there she is. That sarcastic, smarmy bite that is so typically Aleida. 

And because you just  _ haven't  _ gotten your daily fix of stupidity (or heroin, for that matter) you sit down on the bed and wrap your arms around Aleida. 

"The fuck are you--" 

"Shut the fuck up. Pretend like I'm seven and I ain't a junkie and we're in Abuela's house instead of prison. And that you ain't never tried to kill me. Pretend that shit," you murmur, cheek resting on the curve of your mother's neck. 

Aleida sighs and clicks her tongue, begrudgingly returning your embrace. 

"Daya--" 

"Shut up, Ma, goddamn. Just hug me and shit." 

"Okay, okay, shit," Aleida murmurs, placing a hand on the back of your head and stroking your disheveled curls. 

And you knew-- nothing about this was okay. 

But if things hadn't happened, and if things had, it could have been. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a suicide attempt along with referenced self harm. 
> 
> Also, this chapter isn't necessarily a chapter, per se, it's just a few drabbles sloppily put together.

The first time you cut yourself, you're fifteen. 

You had just lost Paolo and Claire, just lost the two people you thought you would have forever. 

You don't know why, actually. Didn't know then, don't know now ten years later. 

Maybe you just wanted to see what would happen, how it would feel. 

And in that moment of teenage rebellion and unfathomably stupid curiosity, you leave a mark on your wrist that lasts forever, a permanent reminder of who and what you used to be-- a dumb kid looking for a place in this world. 

×

×

×

You did it again when you first got to prison. 

You stole a shiv from one of the older ladies, and you hid in the bathroom stall as you marked up your leg. A hand over your mouth, blood dotting your skin, leaving a stain of crimson on the fluorescent orange that you're forced to wear. 

Tears brimmed at the corners of your eyes back then, but they don't anymore when you slice off your skin with a razor. 

_ She  _ once noticed your scars, her eyes wide and her brow furrowed as she spat out the words, 'Yo, why the fuck would you do that to yourself?' 

You shrugged. 'Because shit got hard as fuck. That's why.' 

_ She  _ had accepted your answer, and that was the end of that. 

×

×

×

You're in prison, after all. There's so little to do, so much time to be with your thoughts and be forced to think about the monster you are. 

It used to be a facade, a way to get through the day. Survive. 

But now, it's who you've become. 

And you don't know what the fuck to do with that. 

×

×

×

The system won't punish you anymore. Can't, really. You are beaten down and broken and you will be spending the rest of your life in hell. 

So you decide to punish yourself. 

And everytime you cut yourself, you think--  _ This is for Daddy, this is for John, this is for Aleida, this is for Cesar, this is for Christina, this is for Emiliano, this is for Eva, this is for Lucy, this is for Pornstache and Ms. Powell and Armaria, your baby, your beautiful baby that thinks you don't love her no more.  _

×

×

×

Taystee tries again a few days later. 

You wake up in the middle of the night to her gagging and gasping for breath. 

You untie the makeshift noose from her neck, and slap her good and hard like you did when she called you a junkie, and you hold her when she cries into your chest and you curse her out for tryin' to do that to you, to herself. 

And a small, secret part of you wishes you had that kind of bravery shining in your soul. 

" _ Fuck  _ you, Taystee,  _ fuck  _ you for tryna do that shit," you snarl, bringing your hands down on every available inch of skin. You grab her by the back of her head and crush her face into your chest, whispering horrible, hateful words all the while.

You don't let go even when she starts hyperventilating, sobbing broken and open mouthed into your chest. 


	7. Chapter 7

They leave one by one. 

First, Flaca. 

Then, Nichols. 

Then, Red. 

You remember her from when she helped you out with Pornstache and Bennett, when you were pregnant with Armaria. She was scary and really Russian and not to be fucked with. 

You see her in the hallway, clad in the blue jeans, maroon sweater, and black jacket that neither you nor Taystee will ever wear. She's in a wheelchair, hair gray, skin puckered, eyes lifeless. 

"Yo," you say, holding out your fist. "Mad respect, OG." 

She stares up at you with those empty blue eyes and says something in Russian you can't understand. Probably 'the fuck out of my face, little girl.' 

"Stand back, inmate," the guard holding the wheelchair snarls, and you back away, hands raised reluctantly. 

Lastly, Aleida leaves. 

You pretend to be asleep the day she's released, curled up in your bunk with your eyes shut. 

You can't bear to say goodbye to her. 

"I gotta say goodbye to my daughter, motherfucker!" 

Whoop, there she is. 

Aleida walks into your cell, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and muttering something about how she's sorry, how she loves you, before leaving you forever. 

You make sure nobody sees the tear stains on your pillow. 

×

×

×

Almost nineteen years. 

That's how long you've been incarcerated. 

The day you were supposed to be released came and went, and you pretended to act completely and utterly unaware.

If you hadn't shot that guard, you'd have been holding Armaria in your arms. You would have been happy and in love and a damn good person. 

The second you pulled the trigger, that possibility was tucked away into a corner, collecting dust for years and never to be recovered. 

×

×

×

"Diaz, you have a visitor." 

You kiss your teeth, slamming down your magazine and getting up from the bunk. 

"Damn. These bitches can't never let me be," you grumble as the C.O, a young fresh faced girl with freckles takes you by the arm and steers you into the visitation room. 

A girl with big brown eyes not unlike your own sits on the other side of the glass pane, watchful and wary as you sit your ass in the seat. 

"Yo. Who a' you?" you deadpan, resting your chin on your hand. Despite just turning forty one, you still have the same mannerisms you did twenty years ago. Didn't see the point in changing. 

The girl lets out a tremulous breath, pressing a shaking hand to the glass pane. 

"Today is my eighteenth birthday," she says, every word measured and calculated. 

You arch an eyebrow. "Okay, like, happy birthday and shit, I guess." 

Her eyes narrow. "You don't know who I am?" 

You shake your head. "Am I supposed to?" 

The girl lets out another tremulous breath, moistening her bottom lip. 

"My name is Armaria Powell." 

_ Oh, shit. Ohhhh, shit.  _

That's your daughter. 

That's your daughter, with her hand pressed against the glass. That's your daughter, who you only had the chance to hold once. That's your daughter, who you forced yourself to forget about when you took the plea deal.

That's your daughter, sitting right across from you. 

And you can't fucking believe it. 

"I want you to tell me everything," your daughter--  _ Armaria  _ deadpans, jaw clenched and eyes full of anger. 

"And I mean everything. Who my father was, why you're in prison, everything. And I'm not leaving until you do, because this is so so so so important to me, more than you could ever know." 

"A'ight," you murmur. "Whatchu wanna hear about first?" 

×

×

×

The visit ends with you going to the SHU for throwing your phone at the glass. 

×

×

×

You wrap a towel around your body, tossing your khakis to the side. 

"You okay, D?" 

Taystee's brow is furrowed with curiosity. There are splotches of gray in her hair and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but she's still mad fine to you. 

You shrug, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. "I'm cool. The SHU fucks people up, you should know that." 

"Yeah, but...you seem extra fucked up today. No offense, though." 

You give her a sneer, cutting the conversation short. 

It's not like you're going to tell her about the visit with Armaria. 

You know better than to bring up that shitshow. 

"A'ight, sorry, I'll cool it," Taystee murmurs, hands placed firmly on her hips. Clearly, she feels bad, but-- 

Your blood freezes. 

A C-Block bitch with a shiv in her hand and eyes wide with intent comes up behind Taystee, staring at her with enough hatred to make your heart twist. You try to scream, but all that you can manage is a weak whisper of Taystee's name-- 

Taystee turns around, catching a shiv between the ribs before you can warn her.

You're screaming now, your mind and heart racing a million miles a minute as Taystee gasps in pain, hands clutching the spread of crimson behind her uniform. She falls to her knees, eyes locked with yours as a strangled gasp scrapes the walls of her throat. 

Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, hands still clutching her belly. You turn around and scream at the C.O on duty to 'do something, you stupid fucking  _ pendejo' _ , grabbing Taystee by the chin and screaming at her not to leave you. 

You kiss her, her blood coppery and bitter and vile on your tongue. 

But you know it's the last time you'll get to, so you ignore the taste of her death. 

Taystee bleeds out slowly, slowly, so slowly, her blood staining the shower tiles and the calluses of your hand. 

Prison medics were never of much use in the first place.

×

×

×

You know for certain that Taystee's gone when a guard walks into your cell and delivers the news, simple and deadpan like it's nothing to him. Just a simple, 'oh, by the way, your cellie's in the morgue now,' and he's off. 

And it  _ is  _ nothing to him after all. To him, she's just a nameless, faceless inmate. Just another useless piece of garbage, another clunky piece of metal on a long, long conveyor belt. 

But you? You loved her. 

You never admitted it out loud. No, you knew better than to do that after John, who held your heart in his hands and let it fall to the floor, shattering into a million tiny pieces that could never be put back together again. 

You never told Daddy you loved her either. 

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. She loved you so much, always made it known, whether it be Snickers or heroin or soft, stolen kisses that made your heart flutter. 

And you killed her. So maybe it all evened out in the end. 

But Taystee? She was special. Too good for you, too good for this place, too good for this world. 

Maybe that's why she was taken away from you, because God knew that just as well as you did. 

You scoff. 

Bullshit. There's no such thing as God. 

And even if there is, he ain't coming to save you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.

You die after twenty years of being in prison. 

It's fast, unlike Taystee's death. Painless, unlike Taystee's death, and not nearly as tragic as Taystee's death. 

You have been without her for an entire year, and you have yet to get used to the numb hollowness in your chest whenever she crosses her mind. 

You snort the last line of heroin off your hand, and you don't think much of it when your heart skips a beat, then two, then three. 

And frankly, you're okay with dying. Not because you're at peace with yourself, you're far from it. 

But the thing is, you're not suicidal like Taystee, tying a noose around your neck and jumping. But you don't want to stay alive, either. You're somewhere in the middle, straddling the line, not caring which direction you tip over into. 

A smile still tugs at the corners of your mouth when you slump over and fall to the floor, when a guard radios in your death. 

That is how it ends. Alone in a prison cell, a murderer and a junkie. 

× 

×

×

You inhale. 

You exhale. 

And then you wait for fire and brimstone to consume you for the life you've lived for the past twenty years. 

But it doesn't. 

You open your eyes. 

You're wearing fluorescent orange and staring at the back of the head of a white girl and a black girl, tightly clutching a pillow in your arms. There's a faint smell of mildew in the air, and a brunette with a thick New York (Jersey?) accent is sitting in the driver's seat, blabbering about her wedding. 

And that's when you realize. 

It's your first day in prison all over again. 

You start hysterically laughing, tears streaming down your face from pure euphoria. Chapman (Chapman! Fuckin' Chapman!) turns around, a concerned look etched on her features. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, so soft and gentle and sweet. 

You nod, ignoring the dirty look the other girl is giving you. You never learned her name anyway. 

This is the first day of the rest of your life. 

A fresh start. 

A new beginning. 

You have a chance to start over, to do everything right. To stay away from Bennett, to not shoot that guard, to serve your time in peace and go home to your family when it's done. Hell, maybe you can save a couple lives while you're at it. 

_ Doggett. And the little black hooch-maker.  _

And you can only hope that you'll take it. 


End file.
